Saturday after Epiphany, January 10, 2026

John 3, 22-30

Jesus and his disciples went into the region of Judea, where he spent some time with them baptizing. John was also baptizing in Aenon near Salim, because there was an abundance of water there, and people came to be baptized, for John had not yet been imprisoned. Now a dispute arose between the disciples of John and a Jew about ceremonial washings. So they came to John and said to him, “Rabbi, the one who was with you across the Jordan, to whom you testified, here he is baptizing and everyone is coming to him.” John answered and said, “No one can receive anything except what has been given from heaven. You yourselves can testify that I said that I am not the Christ, but that I was sent before him. The one who has the bride is the bridegroom; the best man, who stands and listens for him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice. So this joy of mine has been made complete. He must increase; I must decrease.”

This Gospel Reading places us at a quiet but decisive threshold in salvation history. Jesus is now openly baptizing, gathering disciples, drawing hearts — and John the Baptist is still present, still active, still surrounded by followers who love him and feel loyal to him. The moment is delicate, almost fragile. Two ministries overlap, two crowds flow, and human comparison begins to stir.

The dispute that arises “about ceremonial washings” is telling. It sounds theological, but beneath it lies something deeply human: anxiety about relevance, fear of being eclipsed, the pain of watching attention drift elsewhere. John’s disciples are not wicked; they are devoted. They come to him not to accuse, but to warn: “Everyone is going to him.” The subtext is unmistakable — What about you? What about us?

John’s response is one of the purest acts of spiritual clarity in all of Scripture. He does not argue, defend, or compete. He reframes the entire situation from heaven’s perspective: “No one can receive anything except what has been given from heaven.” In a single sentence, ambition collapses. Ministries, influence, success, even holiness itself — all are gifts, not possessions. Nothing is seized; everything is received.

Then John speaks the words that reveal his inner freedom: “I am not the Christ.” He had said this before, but now it costs him something. Earlier, crowds had flocked to him; now they are leaving. To repeat the truth at this moment is no longer theoretical — it is sacrificial. John does not cling to his role beyond its appointed hour. He understands that fidelity sometimes means stepping back rather than pressing forward.

The image he uses is strikingly tender. He does not describe himself as a rival or a predecessor, but as the friend of the Bridegroom. His joy does not come from being seen, but from listening — from hearing the Bridegroom’s voice and knowing the wedding has begun. This is a joy rooted not in possession, but in participation. It is the joy of someone who knows his place in a story larger than himself.

And then comes the line that has echoed through centuries of Christian spirituality: “He must increase; I must decrease.” This is not the bitterness of defeat or the resignation of failure. It is the calm acknowledgment of divine order. John does not shrink into nothingness; he becomes fully himself by consenting to his mission’s completion. His “decrease” is not annihilation, but fulfillment.

For us, this passage is both consoling and unsettling. We live in a world that measures worth by visibility, numbers, and growth. John offers a different metric: faithfulness to what has been given, and the humility to release it when the time comes. He reminds us that our lives are not meant to culminate in ourselves, but to point beyond us.

There is a profound peace here — the peace of someone who knows that God’s work does not depend on his self-assertion. John’s joy is “complete” precisely because he does not need to be at the center. He stands at the edge of the mystery, listening, rejoicing, and consenting to the movement of grace.

In John the Baptist, we see what it means to love God’s work more than our own importance. His voice fades, but only because the Word himself has begun to speak.